Resonance
by Samjez
Summary: What had happened to Cecil as a teenager? Not even he knows. Crossposted from Ao3.
1. Chapter 1

The shadow watches, and the shadow waits.

It has done this for as long as it can remember. But remembrance is faulty. A few millennia can feel like a few minutes. In the shadow's case, it lives forever.

But hosts do not live forever. That is a problem.

So the shadow does the only thing it knows: its job. It primarily hunts through the mirrors of humans, looking out to a world that looks at itself. Some mirrors turned up nothing; and some mirrors ended up a goldmine. This latest search was rather void of any potential. If shadows could get frustrated, this one would. The current host, although reliable in the past, gave off the aura of sickness, leaving the flicker hungry. It wouldn't be long until he needed a replacement.

Another 5 minutes of searching, and the shadow finds what it is looking for. A possible replacement. Sometimes the hosts don't make it through the 'awakening' stage. This subject looks to be strong enough, however.

The replacement is but a mere child at this point in time. His pride overshadows his flaws; his posture suggests an attempt at maturity while his mannerisms still point to those of a young teenager. A bit too happy-go-lucky for the shadow's tastes, but you can't win them all.

And then the child speaks. It's the best voice the shadow has heard all day.

It's a bit shrill, but that's to be expected from a teen who hasn't undergone awaking. Voices, the shadow knows, can be fixed. They can be fine tuned and rearranged and you can change pitch and frequency for the maximum efficiency, for maximum feeding capabilities. Voices are nothing but a plaything, waiting to be discovered and changed so the humans that carry them can perform their job as host as best as humanly possible.

And this voice, it must taste so lovely.

The shadow decides to investigate further. It moves swiftly and silently, and is, for the most part, completely unseen. It travels across the floor to get a better view. The child is messing arround with a cassette tape rather foolishly. The boy just keeps talking and talking, and it's luring out the shadow rather dangerously. It could do it right now. It could just knock out the boy and fix him up properly and kill off it's old host, and the legacy of the voice could live on as normal.

_"Wait what is… that?"_

But now is not the time. The shadow has been spotted, which is a rather rare occurrence for itself; but when you're lured out by a voice such as this one, it can happen. It swoops back into its hiding position, waiting for the next move to be made.

_"Oh, hey! Do you want to hear me sing?"_ The boy calls out, upon returning to his cassette. The being of shadow, as much as it thinks that this is the next voice, cannot stand singing. For a few seconds, it frizzles out as it scuttles back into its labyrinth of mirrors. Now is definitely not the time.

The cassettes are more than a good thing. To the shadow, it shows that he's willing to become the next host. He just needs a little fixing.

* * *

The shadow has become immensely greedy.

It lingers around the teen much more than needed, waiting for the right moment to strike. Granted, the window of time to attack isn't for another week or so. But for now, it feeds. And the boy knows, too.

Every word is a banquet, every sentence a feast. It dances between the serenity of the syllables, spending hours on what voice it's going to give this time. Will it be a deep voice that sounds like chocolate being poured? Maybe a sharp voice, leading others into battle? Perhaps a calm voice, slowly drifting everyone into their slumber after a long day's work? Whatever the case, everyone for years upon years will cherish what the shadow picks, tuning in every night for a session of silk resonating against their souls.

The family has become a problem, and they may just hinder that from happening.

The brother discourages the host-in-training from fulfilling his destiny. How dare he, rip apart such hard work and try to fight the inevitable? He will be dealt with later. The mother is a different story. She covers up the mirrors, as if the shadow has not already decided. She knows what is coming, although. It would be best to get her out of the way.

Besides, the child knew his fate when he saw the flickering of the shadow for the first time.

* * *

Leonard knew exactly what was going on when the kid first stepped into the radio center.

Poor kid. The guy must of have been 15, tops. This really shouldn't be happening to him. He was just so innocent. And such a good intern for the short amount of time he was there. The kid kept looking over his back, like he saw something out of the corner of his eye. Which was exactly what happened with Leonard around that age. It's what happened to the radio host before that, and the radio host before that. It was a horribly screwed up tradition that resulted in memories being lost and families being torn apart; but that was Night Vale in a nutshell. Lots of things in Night Vale killed or maimed. The awakening process was actually a minimal death process in the dust bowl of a town.

Whatever did the job of choosing the next voice of Night Vale did its job well, Leonard thought. Cecil Palmer was a fine kid, and he would be perfect as the voice. He just had no idea what was about to happen.

* * *

The boy was beginning to show some quicks of the void.

They were small, usually invisible to everything but the trained eye. He stood up straighter. He begun speaking in nonsense proverbs, something that was commonplace among hosts. His consumption of coffee went through the roof, which were necessary for pulling all nighters. He was nearly ready for awakening. In turn, the teen was rubbing off of the shadow as well. A shred of empathy here, a fragment of feeling there, it was all very human and unlike the shadow. That's what it deserves for feeding off a host. But it wasn't enough to give mercy to the family.

The shadow does not kill. Killing is unprofessional, and as shadows are not physical beings, they are inadequate for cleanup. Instead, the shadow has a plan: it simply takes the soul and body into the mirror for later leftover consumption. There is no waste that way. It's simple, effective, and there's a free meal involved. The teen-Cecil- the shadow enjoys that name. Cecil has picked up the fact that his family is gone. He points it out in one of his cassette recordings. The shadow has decided that it is Cecil's last recording. He just needs to to look into his mirror one last time, and then destiny will take it's course.

_"Interning is going great! Mom is gone, um… Oh! Leonard is super nice to me! My brother's gone, too. Family, right?_

_I think I'm learning a lot at the station. All the mirrors in my house are uncovered now, and I'm not sure who did that. I'm standing in front of the hall mirror right now. Am I changed? Am I becoming an adult? I look more grown, I think. More professional."_

The shadow poises itself. It's so close, and he can taste the voice. He can feel Cecil breathe. He's scared. They always are.

_"That flickering movement... is everywhere now. Especially looking in this mirror. I see the flickering movement, and I __**know**__. I know it."_

Yes, Cecil. accept your fate.

_"I think the radio station is fun. I think the radio station is hidden. I think the radio station is like a dark planet lit by no sun. I think, therefore I soon won't be._

_I'm looking in a mirror. The mirror is not covered. The flickering movement is just…behind me. I–"_

The shadow lunges, and makes contact with Cecil. Cecil screams on the ground, flailing futilely. The shadowy being has a well thought out plan. It begins by crawling up Cecil's chest, and down his throat to stop the screaming. The only way to do it's job proficiently, it seems.

The next few minutes are the most haunting. Every time it delves deep into the body of the next host, it's a brand new experience compared to the last hosts. Sometimes the crawl spaces are tiny and it becomes hard to work. Other insides are expansive and open, and allow for much deeper voices. Cecil's insides were completly average. The shadow begins with a weak anesthesia, putting whatever voice to sleep for a few minutes, which is all it needs.

Then the real fun begins. The shadowy figure begins with the voice box. It re-arranges fibers and muscles ever so slightly to create the most flawless sounding voice it can imagine. The shadow has thought long about this, and it works with precision and diligence to create a masterpiece of sound. Before leaving the voice alone, the shadow tests it out. The shadow cannot talk, for it is a shadow. But the unconscious host can.

_"Cecil."_ The shadow says to itself. It's not quite the voice the shadow wanted, a bit too nasally to properly feed off of. It switches a few tendons before trying again. _"Cecil."_

It's a sonorous voice, deep and rich to pay attention to, but soft enough to lure sirens to their death. And it's perfect.

The shadow continues its way up to the brain. This was always the riskiest part. Waking up early was an issue that almost always resulted in death or failure.

The shadowy figure, for the most part, wipes Cecil's memories completely clean. The voice needs to be concentrated on his job, and past performances do not guarantee future results. Cecil also needs to be emotionally stable; who knows what the kid would do if he found his parents missing? It would break him. Hosts are meant to be fixed, not broken.

While in his mind, the nameless figure begins prying at his third eye. Hosts are known to be omnipotent. This is what sets him apart from the rest. It makes Cecil a child of the void, a speaker for the unknown. It intertwines him with the stars and universe alike, and in the end, it allows him to do his job better.

But, if the pain isn't excruciating when it the shadow can administer an aura of numbing. Cecil had survived awakening.

Opening the third eye also gives Cecil a myriad of void-like traits. It gave Leonard thick, purple lips. It might give Cecil tentacles, or tattoos, or hair so white that it makes doves look dirty and stained. The shadow never can tell, even when outside the host. Eyes aren't very well developed on a shadow.

When the third eye opens, it shows glimpses of time. Some of these time windows are seconds, while others are minutes of the past and future. It's always interesting to note the futures of the hosts. Would they be well liked by the community? Would they meet an unruly end?

Cecil's third eye showed the Shadow something different.

Love. Cecil's third eye overwhelmed the shadow with pictures and thoughts of love. It practically burned at the synapses, scorching the shadow with affection. Cecil was going to wake up soon. It crawled quickly out of the boy, leaving him in a huddled, unconscious heap on the ground. And the shadow retreated back into the mirror from once it came from, well fed and with a new host. And the shadow watched. And the shadow waited.

* * *

Cecil wakes up as a blank slate. He's hurting, and suffering from amnesia, and he's disorented beyond belief. Secret police have surrounded him in his home. Leonard Burton has been missing. And Cecil is next in line to be Voice of Night Vale.


	2. Bravado

Cecil was learning many things in a short amount of time.

For instance, he learnt that the 'secret police' didn't stop at police. There were secret firemen, and secret garbage collectors, and secret postman delivering mysterious letters to houses in the dead of night. In this case, Cecil was being checked out by a secret pediatrician. For the time being, he was but a slide under Night Vale's microscope. He wasn't sure if he should like that.

"Any lightheadedness?" The nameless doctor asked him.

"Nope."

"Do you still see flickering?"

"Uh, no. I think it stopped last week?"

"What about memories?"

"Still gone."

"Hm. Does your voice still hurt?

This was a touchy subject with Cecil. When they discovered him unconscious the week before, his voice had been… refined. Now it was much too deep, and didn't fit his small body at all. And with the constant cracking, it was easy to see why Cecil was getting frustrated. It was almost as if someone had jammed the wrong puzzle pieces together, completing the puzzle but messing up the picture.

"...A little bit, yeah. It's gotten better, but-"

"Congrats. You're fine. You're breathing, and eating, and blinking." The secret pediatrician pats him on the back. He's improved a lot over the last week. "Speaking of blinking, it seems your eyes have changed color."

"Really? What color?" Cecil asks.

"Ha, I can't tell. I'm colorblind."

And the nameless doctor leaves Cecil in a stainless doctor's room to ponder the inevitable.

His mind churned out an endless array of questions, filling in whatever brain matter that was empty from missing memories. What was going to happen to him now? Where would he go? As much as he had learnt, every answer lead to more questions; each question more deadly and potent than the last. He was unsure how much longer he could keep poking around for clues. Cecil ended up watching the ceiling. Maybe if he stared long enough something would happen, he thinks. Or maybe he would decay over time, slowly becoming a skeleton of a child while creatures came from near and far to eat his remains. Cecil thinks he would be a pretty good appetizer. Main course, not so much.

He's rambling about nonsense again. Every moment after secret police had found him, his strange, poetic side has been drawn out of him to the point where it's become annoying. He curses himself while the door leading outside creaks open. A very young woman in business attire cautiously makes her way into the office. Instantly the room feels much, much smaller.

"Cecil."

He's still staring at the ceiling. "Hello. Who might you be?"

Instantly the woman's spirit drops. Her own voice waivers. "Oh, wow. I didn't expect your voice-"

"Yeah. I didn't either."

"N-no matter. The name is Miss. Winchell. I've recently been appointed mayor to Night Vale. It has come to my attention that… that….

...I-I can't."

This is a speech she has rehearsed many, many times. She had practiced in front of her own mirror for hours at a time, training herself for natural tone and inflection. She signed countless papers, pushed ordinances within the warped figures of a committee. Miss. Winchell was not trained or prepared for this. She closes the door softly, before continuing with a much hushed voice. She was dealing with a child.

This grabs the attention of Cecil. Just staring into his big eyes was like watching innocence wither away.

"I-I'm sorry. It's just that your voice is so big, and you are so… impossibly small. You're a kid. I've read the research papers over again, and this always happens to teenagers. But you're so _young_. As you know, your duties as the Voice of Night Vale begin next week."

"No, I don't know. Please tell me."

"Hm?"

"I have no idea what's going on. My memories are gone. My voice sounds like puberty hit it like a truck. Truthfully, I couldn't be more afraid."

"...Right. Cecil. Reading from past documents, there's a bit of tradition in Night Vale. Whenever the previous host for the community radio show goes missing, some teenager wakes up with no memories whatsoever, and a completely different voice, along with some… extra abilities. That kid ends up being the next host. It's something that's been reported on for several generations. Any attempt to understand or research this ends up with death."

"So that's it? You force kids to host your radio show?"

"Well, they're kids when they start. Radio hosting has some of the longest lifespans known. Leonard was the same age as you when he started, according to the book. You saw how old he got."

"That's not helping."

"Ugh, sorry. I'm new to this, you know? Mayor for less than six months. Chosen by some humming rocks out in the middle of the desert. I'm babbling."

"Keep going," Cecil replies, with full attention on Miss Winchell. "It's… It's comforting."

"You will be treated like a king." Winchell blurts out. But once she starts, it's non stop. "You will have an endless array of interns at your disposal, keeping you well fed and safe from the horrors of Night Vale. You will live in the utmost comfort that the community has to offer, and a bottomless pot of coffee will be at your fingertips."

"And the cons?"

" Becoming the keystone of our desert community is no easy task. You have to be professional at all times. You can't be late or have someone fill in- management gets angry and substitutes are killed by unseen forces. Training will occur on the job, and nobody is qualified but yourself to train. Because you're fifteen, you will become government property and belong to the radio station. It's a gilded cage. Ya gotta grow up, kiddo. You have clown sized shoes to fill."

The room is left silent, and this gives Cecil time to think. His head can come up with nothing, which is odd, because it was filled with questions earlier. What more was there to say? His fate was chosen for him as soon as he saw a flicker in his eye.

He was lying if the thought of being radio host didn't excite him.

"I'll do it." He states.

"It wasn't a question on whether you'll do it or not," Miss. Winchell speaks up. Her voice, once soft and quiet, now was a commanding force. "It was a question on whether you would go kicking and screaming or not. C'mon, lets get out of this stuffy office and show you your new home, shall we?"

Winchell and Cecil wander their way out of the secret doctor's office, into a dusty, barren car lot that held little but dirt and a beat up car. In the horizon stood a thousand little buildings. Cecil had to admit, this was the farthest he had ever been from the community. It made him feel… uneasy. Because of this, Cecil happily hops into Miss. Winchell's cluttered car. There's a half dozen or so air fresheners dangling from the dashboard, and clutter ranging from boxes of paper to empty water bottles. He doesn't mind, although the mayor seems properly embarrassed. Looking closer at her revealed much more of the story. She couldn't have been much more than twenty. Even so, the job already had aged her slightly; bags under her eyes and sloppily pulled back hair showed the stress of the situation. Cecil smiled. She could relate.

All of the mirrors in the car had been jury-rigged and duct taped over in preparation. Not only was it dangerous to drive in, but it was a shame that Cecil couldn't see himself. The mayor turns the keys, and begins the drive 'home'.

"Ya know, whatever chose your voice did a pretty good job, actually. It's very calming to listen to."

Cecil wasn't used to compliments. "Oh. Um, than_k you?_" His voice cracks again.

Mayor Winchell laughs. "Don't worry, kiddo. You'll grow into in with enough time."

A pause, then Cecil thinks up a question.

"Miss Winchell, is there anything I should know before starting?"

"Oh, you should know _everything._ You may also call me Pamela. I don't mind."

"Okay. Miss Winc- Pamela. I should know everything. But do you have any tips for me? Any pointers before I'm thrown into the shark tank?"

"Hmmm. Cecil. Let me think…. Be brave. There's an entire world out there waiting to be reported on. If anything, bravery should be a requirement for the job. I don't really make the rules. And I'm the Mayor. Fancy that. But, find your Bravado. You're going to need it."

"Pamela?"

"Hm?"

"Thank you."

The engine dies down once they reach their destination: The Night Vale Community Radio Station. The signaling tower climbs endlessly upward, making the building look like a miniature version of the Eiffel tower. Potted Cacti line the outside. One of the few memories that stood intact was the interior of the building (although he couldn't quite put his finger on how he knew,) but Pamela led him in anyway if it was a brand new experience.

Something new was happening to the teen; the booths and interior felt like they were calling out to Cecil. The walls enveloped him in history and stories past, whispering sweet words as if to calm his nerves.

Things had been re-arranged for his arrival. The records and tapes that were strewn about before were in their proper positions, new furniture was in the lounge area, and the studio was revamped with up-to-date, shiny technology suited towards Cecil's needs. They had spared no expense for him. He felt almost giddy.

"Alright, because funding can only get us so far, you will be living on site for a few years. There's a bedroom and kitchen down the hall on your left. There's a book of rules sitting on the table in the sound booth; I've been told that it's mandatory to read a good majority of it before the first recording next week. Any questions? Go read the book."

"What if I have to contact you?"

"Ooh, professional sounding already. I love it. If you need me for any reason at all, gimmie a call, alright?" Pamela fumbles with her front pocket, eventually pulling out a business card with her information

"I have a board meeting in 20 minutes. I've got to go. Fake it till you make it kid. That's what I'm doing."

As quick as Mayor Winchell has arrived to the radio station. She is gone. For the first time in a week, Cecil is left alone. There's nobody studying him, or talking to him, or breathing down his neck. It's completely silent.

As much as he hates to admit it, the silence gnaws on Cecil. He hates it. He would have been happy before for silence. Why is he not happy now?

He trots down the left corridor, reaching the mostly empty room at the end. There's a bed, plush and well made in the center of the room. Pamela was right. The bed looked exuberant. Rules and microphones could wait for just a few more hours.

Cecil collapses on the bed, and doesn't move again until his interns wake him up with a glass full of water to the face.


End file.
